


Back With the Streets I Know

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Provost's Dog fusion, Tortall fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4664166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke didn't want to get a Puppy in the first place; it's even worse when she finds out the Puppy has an overprotective brother.</p><p>(Provost's Dog fusion with guard!Clarke and tailor!Bellamy)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back With the Streets I Know

**Author's Note:**

> Per the summary, this is a fusion with Tamora Pierce's Provost's Dog series. It's not actually a retelling of the books, just same location/setting. You should be fine if you aren't familiar with the books, and I have tried to keep the slang to a minimum because I did not want a giant glossary like the books have. Also, Clarke was raised in a better household than Beka, so it makes sense. Most important, Dog = City guard, Puppy = Trainee guard, Rat = criminal. Happy bag is an official bribe, the Rogue is the leader of the city's criminal element. I think that's about it. Whatever, it's fluff, you'll be fine. Title from the Weakerthans.

The really unfair thing is that Clarke didn't even _want_ a Puppy. Wells is the one who wanted a Puppy, who talked Clarke into it, but Clarke's the one who has to deal with the mess.

Not that the Puppy herself is much of a problem, Clarke has to admit. Octavia Blake is quick, smart, and capable, born and raised in the Lower City, with resources and contacts of her own. She's a decent fighter, and she's on her way to being a good Dog. In fact, if not for the one thing, Clarke would be thrilled with their new Puppy.

But there is the one thing, and the one thing is her brother.

Clarke meets the elder Blake during Octavia's first week as a Puppy. It's a rough week, but that's to be expected--being a Guard is tough, and being a Puppy is toughest. It's Clarke and Wells' job to keep her alive, and they're going to.

Clarke is in the kennel, chatting with their healer, Monty, when Bellamy Blake storms in. 

She assumes he's here to make a complaint, and he'll file it with the Dog on desk duty, but instead he strides right over to Clarke and says, "What happened to my sister?"

"Excuse me," Clarke says pointedly to Monty, hoping to shame the stranger. If if works, he shows no sign of it. "May I help you?"

"Griffin, right?" 

Clarke sizes him up. He's twenty-seven or twenty-eight, 5'10", with curly black hair, dark eyes, and tan skin. He's dressed decently enough, a tradesman at her guess, not one she knows. Not someone who lives in the Lower City, although he has a bit of a burr in his voice that makes her think he once did.

"Yes. How can I help you?"

"My sister is _hurt_."

"Do you know who did it?"

His jaw works, and then he says, "Octavia is my sister. _You_ got her hurt."

Clarke reexamines him with that in mind. From the Lower City, like his sister, but prospering now, probably apprenticed to a decent trade when he was young. His coloring is enough darker than Octavia's that Clarke thinks they must only share one parent. It's usually the mother, down here; children tend to stay with the one that spawned them. But it's possible this older Blake's mother died and his father remarried or found a new mistress. Either way, he's a good ten years older than his sister, who's all of seventeen, so he's likely to have been a parent to her too.

Which explains why he's come to bother Clarke about her.

"Puppies get hurt, Master Blake."

"Bellamy."

"Master Bellamy."

"Just Bellamy," he says. "Bellamy Blake. I'm no one's master."

"Fine, Bellamy," Clarke huffs. "Yes, your sister was hurt yesterday. Yes, I'm sorry for it. I'm her training Dog, it's my job to keep her safe. We cannot be everywhere. And I'm sure your sister wouldn't thank you for coming down here and fighting her battles for her. She knew what she was getting into, joining the Guard."

Blake looks a little surprised, as if he might not be used to people standing up to him when he starts barking at them. What did he expect a guardswoman to do, cower before him? Clarke sees worse than him most nights.

"It hasn't even been a week," he says, a challenge.

"I don't decide what nights will be eventful. If I did, there would be many fewer of them."

His mouth twitches, like he wants to smile, but he's not ready to give up on being irritable. So he just nods once and then turns and leaves.

"You're going to have trouble with that one," says Monty.

"I know," says Clarke, watching Bellamy Blake's retreating back. "I already have a headache."

The next week, he thinks Octavia is being worked too hard; Clarke agrees and tells him all Puppies are. The week after that, he thinks she isn't getting enough sleep, and the week after, enough food.

"Have you met Guardsman Jaha?" she asks him.

"No."

"Excellent, come on."

She drags him by his sleeve to the muster, where Wells and Puppy Blake are waiting for her. Puppy Blake's eyes widen and then narrow at the sight of her brother.

"This is Bellamy," Clarke tells Wells, brisk, once Indra has released them onto their watch. "He's concerned we aren't treating our Puppy kindly."

"Bell--" Puppy Blake starts, but then shuts her mouth, remembering she hasn't been given permission to speak.

"Bellamy Blake, this is Guardsman Wells Jaha. I'm sure he'd be as happy as I am to hear your concerns."

"Master Blake--"

"He doesn't like to be called Master," says Clarke. She turns to Octavia. "Don't worry, Puppy, I didn't think you knew."

The Puppy looks like she might burst from not dressing down her brother, and Clarke takes some grim satisfaction from how uncomfortable the man looks. His sister is a good Puppy, will be a good Dog, and he shouldn't fret over her. She's a woman grown.

"A pleasure, Blake," says Wells, straight-faced, always the peacemaker.

"Puppy, why don't you take your brother and get us some pasties. He's concerned we aren't feeding you properly. Meet us in the square when you're done."

Octavia takes her brother's arm and jerks him away; Clarke can hear her hissing, "Bell, by the goddess, I will--" and feels some grim satisfaction when she sees him wince.

"Did you drag him down here just to let the Puppy chew on him?"

"He's been coming in every week since she started to chew on me," Clarke says. "I thought it was only fair to give him a chance to see how he liked it."

When Puppy Blake comes back, she has their food with her and no brother; Clarke's glad for the food, and obviously Bellamy couldn't have walked their patrol with them. But still, she can't help wishing he'd stopped by to say goodnight.

It's a ridiculous thought, and she tries very hard to knock it from her head, but she doesn't quite manage it.

*

Clarke has gained a number of skills since leaving her parents' house, but sewing is not one of them. She has tried, but even the most basic mending is beyond her. Her clothes end up ruined instead of repaired, and she always manages to prick herself at least four times before she gives up.

So her day off finds her seeking out a new tailor--her old one having moved to Port Caynn--so she can get some dresses and one of her uniforms mended. It's always painful, giving up coin for something she should be able to do herself, but she's come to accept this as one of her failings.

The shops are all fairly similar, and Clarke wanders without much idea of where she's going, looking in windows for inspiration. He old training Dog recommended the last one, and without his guidance, she's lost. There's a well-embroidered dress in one shop that catches her eye, and when she ducks inside, she stops short, frozen at the sight of Bellamy Blake walking out of the back with a well-dressed lady.

"--a week," he's saying. He hasn't noticed Clarke yet, although she's gawping at him. She just--he didn't strike her as a _tailor_. "If you'll take less embroidering it could be sooner, but those fancy details take time."

"May I help you, mistress?" asks a girl, his assistant, she assumes, and Clarke drags her attention from Bellamy with effort.

"I was just--" she starts, which is when Bellamy notices her.

"I've got her, Roma," Bellamy says. "Mistress Allen needs to set up payment, you can help her with that."

The assistant, Roma, inclines her head in acknowledgement, and Bellamy comes over to Clarke. He looks--amused, maybe? She can't quite read his expression, although she's normally good at that sort of thing. Encountering him unexpectedly has thrown her off.

"To what do I owe the honor, Guardswoman?" His eyes flick down to look at her outfit, an old but serviceable dress. "Not official business, I assume."

"I'm in the market for a new tailor," she says, and then, against her better judgement, "I was admiring the dress you have on display."

"Thank you," says Bellamy, a smirk playing around his lips. "I'm always glad to have my work appreciated."

"I wouldn't have taken you for a tailor," she admits.

"No?"

"My old tailor wasn't aggressive in the slightest," she says, and that makes him grin. She hasn't ever seen him looking so cheerful before, and it's a lot to take in. He's handsome enough when he's irritated, but when he's smiling, he's even better.

"What are you looking for? Don't tell me you need a new dress for a ball."

"I haven't needed a new dress in years," she says. "I just need some mending." At his frown, she glares. "Not all of us are gifted with needles!"

That gets her a laugh, short and surprised, and she wants to hear it again. "The most feared Provost's Guard in the Lower City and you can't even mend your own uniforms?"

"I think Indra's still more feared than I am, even if she's desk sergeant," Clarke says. She manages a dry tone, but she thinks she's blushing. Octavia had talked her brother out of coming back to speak with Clarke since they met in the Day Market, and Clarke hadn't missed him storming in to tell her she was a poor excuse for a training Dog, but she had--well, she had enjoyed seeing him. She tried not to put much thought into why.

"Second most feared, then," he says. "Let me see it."

She shows him the uniform, a neat gash up the left arm, long but clean, and the dresses, one of which she tore tripping on it and the other of which is just getting old. 

He frowns. "Don't they pay Dogs? I know Puppies don't get much, but--"

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, glaring.

"The uniform's fine, easy enough to fix. The dresses--I don't know how often you wear skirts, but I'd get new ones. I can mend them today and you'll be back in with new repairs next week. And that's not because _I'm_ bad with a needle."

Clarke sighs. "I hate spending money on clothing," she admits. "I should just wear my uniform everywhere."

"And then you'd wear that out and need it repaired," says Bellamy. "Come to the back and I'll take your measurements."

She scowls. "I didn't say I was getting anything new."

"Anyone who tells you he'll repair these is stealing your coin," he says, holding up the dresses. "I assume that means you'll need replacements." He pauses. "And I do give a discount to Dogs who are taking care of my sister."

Clarke can't help smirking at that. "So I'm taking care of her now?"

"As much as you can," he admits, grudging. "Come on, Guardswoman."

"If you're going to refuse to let me call you Master Blake, you might as well call me Clarke."

He glances over his shoulder, a surprised smile on his lips. "Is that your name?"

"No, I tell people to call me that because it amuses me," she says, rolling her eyes. "Yes, it's my name."

"Clarke," he says, like he's tasting it. "O just calls you Griffin, or sometimes _my hero_. She wants to be you when she grows up."

"She only thinks that because she doesn't know how useless I am at mending," says Clarke. She's done well for herself as a Dog, she knows that. Aside from Wells, no one in her kennel knows much of her, outside of her work. Puppy Blake sees Clarke as a good Dog who's earned respect, and wants that for herself. And Clarke is glad of it, honestly. She doesn't want to be known as a daughter who disappointed her parents by joining the Guard instead of making a good marriage and helping them better themselves socially. She's made the life she wants, and other people see her living that life well. They need not know the rest.

"She's not much good at it either, or I would have tried harder to get her to join the guild with me," Bellamy remarks. He takes her measurements with quick, sure motions, a professional in his element. Clarke tries to ignore his proximity, and she almost misses it when he speaks again. "What happened to the uniform?"

"Nothing, really. They tear all the time."

"It's a clean cut," he says. "It looked like a cut. Are you injured?"

"No, I caught it on something. A nail, I think? And it hit right to tear it open. Wells laughed for ten minutes. It was--fluttering."

Bellamy smiles. "Octavia says you're good to her."

"Who mistreats a Puppy?" Clarke huffs, but she knows some Dogs _do_. There are Dogs she doesn't want to ever train a Puppy, and that's how Wells convinced her to finally accept one of their own. They've only been a team for five years, both still fairly green Dogs themselves, but she knows how good they are. "You don't live with your sister," she observes, quite sure of it. "But you still see her a great deal."

"She moved out when she was assigned to the Lower City," he says. "She said she didn't want to hike all the way back to me after she mustered out. We usually have breakfast together."

"So you can make sure she eats and check her for bruises."

He flashes her a grin, but doesn't deny it. Instead, he straightens and says, "Done. I'll have the uniform fixed on Tuesday, if you want to get it. The dresses a week from today. If one's pressing, I'll do it sooner."

"No, not pressing," she says. "I just like having a few, in case I need them."

He nods. "Come on out, you can pay the deposit now and I'll charge you the rest when you get them."

"You haven't even let me pick fabrics," she protests, although she doesn't really mind. Aside from color and texture, she has few opinions about fabrics, and all the ones Bellamy has on display look soft and lovely. Probably too expensive, but--she does have some spare coin this month.

"I charge less when you let me decide," he says, and he refuses to take more than a few coppers today and a few more on delivery. It's almost nothing for _new_ clothes, and she narrows her eyes at him.

"You'll lose your shop, charging this little."

"Lucky I don't charge this little very often, then," he says. "I'll see you on Tuesday."

*

Part of Clarke feels as if she should tell the Puppy about it, but--there's nothing to tell, not really. She went to find a tailor and found one. Of course she'd pick one she knew, if she could. 

Still, she knows it's more than that. She picks one of her nicer dresses to go back on Tuesday and even fidgets with her hair a little. She tends to wear it up in a tight bun, like she does on duty, even on her time off, out of habit. She leaves it down today, curling over her shoulders. She was thought of as a beauty, before she became a Dog, and even now, with her nose crooked from breaks, she thinks she can look quite lovely when she wants to.

She just wishes she didn't want to.

Bellamy's assistant Roma is in the shop, with no sign of Bellamy, but she flashes Clarke a smile and says, "Good morning, Guardswoman. Bellamy's in back, I'll just go and fetch him for you."

"Thank you," says Clarke, surprised and pleased, both that Roma is getting Bellamy, not just getting Clarke's uniform, and that she calls him Bellamy. Clarke has known people who tell those they think of as equals they hate to stand on ceremony, but get offended if them as are beneath them take the same liberties. She's glad to be sure Bellamy isn't like that.

Bellamy comes back out with a bundle; Roma doesn't come with him. "Good morning," he says, and she feels his eyes on her, a quick sweep of admiration that makes her belly clench.

"Morning," she says. "Thanks for getting this done so quickly."

"It's one torn sleeve," he says. "If I hadn't been so busy, I could have done it while you were here before." He grins. "If you had any skill with--"

"I may not be in uniform, but I could hobble you right now for impudence," Clarke grumbles, and he laughs outright.

"I have no doubt. Although I think if you did, O would forget her training and give you an earful. Besides, then you won't get your uniform back."

"And then I won't be able to hobble anyone," she agrees.

They lapse into silence, and Clarke hopes it's not just her hoping one of them will come up with something else to say, so she doesn't have to just take her uniform and leave. She's been excited to see him again for two days, it seems so unfair for it to be over so quickly.

"Do you want to see the dresses?" he offers, and it's an effort to not sag with relief. "You can tell me you hate the colors and want everything redone."

She feels her own smile break out. "Yes, please."

He has a number of dresses in progress on forms in the back, most of them fancy work, frills and decorations at the hems. Roma is stitching flowers onto one of them, but when she sees Clarke and Bellamy come back, she sticks her needle into the dress form and returns to the shop. Clarke catches Bellamy's roll of his eyes and Roma's smirk and feels her heart speed up. His assistant is giving them _privacy_.

"These are yours," he says, showing her two in the back. They resemble the dresses she brought for repair, one a heavy, serviceable brown which won't show so many strains, something she wears when she wants to do errands and attract no attention.

The other is pale blue and lovely, and she can't help reaching out to try the fabric under her fingers. There's a bit of detailing at the neck, almost nothing, really, just a border in slightly darker blue thread, almost nothing.

"I didn't pay you enough for this one," she says, staring. She hasn't bought herself a pretty dress since she became a Dog. She just got her old ones mended again and again.

"I set the price," he says, but he sounds embarrassed. "I overcharge enough people I can afford to undercharge some."

"Thank you," she says, soft.

"You're watching out for Octavia," he says, and she hopes it's not the only reason.

She takes the uniform out when she gets home, admires the tidy, invisible stitches. When she dresses for muster, it's that one she puts on, foolish as it feels. It's then that she notices something at her wrist, an odd flash, and when she holds it up, she sees a design picked out in black thread, almost invisible against the black of her sleeve. A griffin, one claw raised, small and delicate.

She stares at it for so long she's nearly late for muster.

*

Kane was injured in a brawl a few nights back, so at Thursday muster, Indra tells Wells and Clarke, "Griffin, Jaha, take your Puppy and get the Rogue's Happy Bag."

She usually finds an excuse to send the pair of them every few months; Kane is getting close to retirement or promotion, and Indra is grooming Clarke and Wells to take the responsibility when that happens. It will be their first time going with their Puppy, though.

"Ever been to the Court of the Rogue, Blake?" Wells asks her as they walk.

"Not to the Court," says Octavia. "But I've met the Rogue."

Clarke nods, not surprised. Raven is from the Lower City herself, as Clarke recalls. And she's popular. "Tell us what you know of her."

"Twenty-six, five-foot-five, tan skin, dark brown hair. She's from the Cesspool. Killed the old Rogue three year back. She was working for her, but she said Nygel didn't act like a Rogue should, wasn't taking care of her people. And she wasn't."

"And does Raven?"

"Yes, Griffin."

Wells nods. "She's a good Rogue, as they go. Takes care of her own and the Lower City, doesn't give us trouble if she doesn't have to. Avoids killing when she can, which is rare."

"I like Raven," Octavia admits, caught somewhere between hesitance and conviction. She's not sure she's allowed to say it, Clarke decides, but she thinks it's important.

Clarke and Wells exchange a smile, where the Puppy can't see. "I like her too," she says. 

The Court is busy as usual, loud and merry, full of people gambling and drinking. Clarke likes the Court of the Rogue, too, for all it's full of criminals. There's always something interesting to bet on, if nothing else.

She and Wells both check the place for anything that looks like it could be trouble with quick scans of the room, while Octavia, a first-time visitor, doesn't bother hiding her curiosity. It all looks normal until her eye catches on Bellamy in the corner, watching them tensely. She thinks he's upset to have been caught out being here, but then she gets a better look, sees the tension as he watches his sister, and has to bite back a laugh. The Court is honestly one of the safer places Dogs go; Raven doesn't want to start a war with the Provost's Guard. But of course Bellamy wouldn't want his sister to be here.

Clarke shoots him a small smile when she catches his eye, and Bellamy gives her a rueful one in return, shaking his head in disapproval. Octavia, for her part, doesn't seem surprised to find her brother here, so whatever business it is that brings him, it must be routine.

She would have mentioned, if he was involved with the Rogue. And besides, what rusher would pose as a _tailor_? Why would he bother? If he worked for the Rogue, he wouldn't need the coin.

Raven's busy, dealing with some of her district chiefs, so Wells says, "Ever mingled with rushers, Puppy?"

"My friends are over there," says Octavia, jerking her head to a table on the other side of the room from her brother. Clarke recognizes Fox, a flower-seller, and Lincoln, who works on the cargo boats that go to Port Caynn. 

Wells cocks his head at her, and she nods. "You should go talk to them, then. Griffin and I will mingle."

Wells does, and Clarke does too, for all of a minute, before she gives up and goes to sit with Bellamy instead. She's wearing the uniform he repaired for her again, and the griffin at her wrist feels like it's burning against her skin.

"Hey," says Bellamy, giving her half a smile. "You really had to bring Octavia here?"

"It's the work," says Clarke. "Evening."

"Evening. You know Miller?" he asks, jerking his head to his companion.

Clarke smiles. She and Nathan Miller aren't close, but she's always liked him, for all he's often on the wrong side of the law. His father's a guard over in Unicorn District, and Clarke knew them growing up. "I know him, yeah. Hey, Miller."

"Hey, Griffin." He nods at someone across the room and says, "Looks like I'm in this hand," he says. "Don't want to miss out on my chance to make some money off bad gamblers."

Clarke watches him go, and he really does join a game, so if he was just trying to give them privacy, at least he followed through on his excuse.

"I didn't think Dogs came here much," Bellamy observes, stretching out his legs into the space Miller left.

"We're here for the happy bag." She regards him sidelong. "I didn't think tailors came here much."

He considers her, takes a sip of his ale. "Did Octavia tell you we know the Rogue?"

"She did."

He nods. "We lived near her, growing up. I assume you know we grew up in the Cesspool too."

"Yes."

"Ma still lives there," he says, surprising her. Octavia's never mentioned their mother; Clarke assumed she was dead. "O and I don't have the time or the inclination to take care of her, so--I come by once a month and leave some coin for the Rogue, and she makes sure Ma doesn't get her throat cut."

Clarke is quiet for a minute, looking at Raven instead of Bellamy. "So, a man who has enough time to come down to the kennel every week to tell of his sister's training Dog for doing her job has to pay the Rogue to look out for his mother?" she asks, turning back to him.

Bellamy ducks his head--in embarrassment or amusement, Clarke can't tell which. "More no inclination, then." He pauses, and then says, "I assume O hasn't mentioned her."

"No. To be honest, I assumed she was--"

He nods. "I'm not surprised. She wasn't a bad mother to me, not at first. But she took to drinking after Octavia was born, and it got bad quick."

"You must have been--ten? Eleven?"

"Ten, when she was born. Twelve when Ma started drinking hard. She was a seamstress before that, that's how I learned. Got my apprenticeship, but I went home a lot. I was worried about O, alone with her." He swallows hard, looks down into his ale. "I was fourteen when I heard her talking to her man about slave sellers. Octavia was a pretty little thing, you know? Could have gotten a good price for her. So I told them I was taking her, and she was too drunk to stop me. My master let me keep her, so long as I paid for her food. He was a good man."

Clarke nods. It's a familiar story, in the Lower City, but with a happier ending than most get. "And she never tried to get Octavia back?"

"I think she was just as glad to be rid of her," he says, with a shrug. "It was less about the money than the bother of another child. But--she's still our ma. I don't want to find out she drank herself to death or got her throat cut."

"So you come to the Rogue."

"Raven's Ma wasn't a prize either," Bellamy says. "If she or I were prettier, we might have been sold ourselves. She knows how it is."

Clarke understands what he means--they're both too dark to be very valuable as slaves; she'd sell better, honestly, being pale and fair-haired--but she has trouble truly thinking of him and Raven as not pretty enough for anything.

"You never grew up here," he adds, perhaps thinking along the same lines she had been.

"No. I'm from Unicorn District."

"And how does a pretty girl from Unicorn District end up a Dog?"

Raven is done with her business and Wells is gesturing to her, so Clarke flashes Bellamy a smile and stands. "She wants to be a Dog," she tells him. "Have a good night, Bellamy."

"Getting friendly with the Puppy's brother?" Wells asks, while Octavia is still making her way over to them. 

"He's my new tailor," Clarke says, rubbing her thumb over the griffin at her wrist. "Does good work."

"Five silvers says he's courting you by Midwinter," says Wells.

"Bet," Clarke agrees, and they shake on it.

*

On Sunday, when she goes to get her dresses, Bellamy says, "I was about to go and eat. Do you want to come?"

She has to bite back her smile when she says yes.

"So, I think you owe me more of a story," he remarks as they walk. It's her first time strolling with him, and it's nice. Companionable. "I told you a good deal about us."

"There isn't much to tell." He looks dubious, and she laughs. "There isn't! My father is a merchant, fairly wealthy. My mother is wealthier. She was hoping I'd marry a lord and elevate the family, but I wanted a career. Then she hoped I'd be something respectable, like a Healer. I have a bit of the Gift, but--I wanted to be a Dog. I like protecting people."

"I didn't know you had the Gift."

"Not much of one." She grins. "Just enough to patch myself up so my mother didn't know I'd been fighting."

That makes him laugh, and he seems relaxed, easy. It's a relief, honestly; not everyone is comfortable with the Gift, and she'd be disappointed if he seemed nervous around magic.

"So I shouldn't worry about Octavia getting too hurt."

"You should," Clarke says, sobering. "The Puppy years are dangerous. My partner and I will do everything we can, but--"

"I know," says Bellamy. "I tried to talk her out of it. I even tried to make her work for me, for all she's no great hand with a needle. She agreed to try it for a few years, but she hated it, so she joined the Dogs, like she wanted."

"She's a good Dog," Clarke says. "I'm glad she did."

"I'm not," he says, but his smile is wry, amused. "But I am glad you're her training Dog."

"That's why you stopped coming to tell me I was doing a poor job?"

"You should have heard what she said she'd do to me if I didn't butt out."

"And you're not worried about what she'll do if she finds out you're taking me to eating houses and sewing griffins on my clothes?"

He blushes, to her delight. "I'd be more worried about you objecting to that than Octavia."

"I'm not objecting," she tells him, and he grins.

"Good."

*

Clarke doesn't really know how to court, though. She's only ever done this sort of thing with women before, and it's different with women. Most of the ones she'd bedded were properly bred young ladies, interested in gaining experience without compromising their virtue before marriage. None of them had been interested in anything more than a few nights with her.

She thinks Bellamy is interested in more than that, but she doesn't know how to see him, or where to find him. Going to visit him at his shop feels embarrassing; she thinks his assistant is already laughing at them. And he isn't at the Court of the Rogue so often, nor is she. He doesn't live near her, so far as she knows. She doesn't know how to do this.

Then there's a brawl, and she nearly gets her head knocked in.

It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. Clarke's a good Dog, capable in a fight and fast, but no one can keep out of trouble forever. And this is their first hard fight with the Puppy around; Octavia does better than she expected, but if only one of them is going to survive, it's Clarke's duty to make sure it's her.

It doesn't get as bad as all that, thank the goddess, but it _is_ bad. Clarke's too out of it after to use her own Gift on any of them, and Octavia has to half-drag her back to the kennel even while Wells stays with the Rats. Clarke hates leaving him alone, but he has another Dog team with him, and both she and Octavia need to visit the healer. It's the right choice.

"Don't tell your brother," she says, vaguely. "I'm supposed to look out for you. I think he's starting to like me."

The Puppy snorts, sounding a great deal like Bellamy. "I think he'll notice," she says dryly, and passes Clarke into Monty's care.

When she wakes up from the healing, Bellamy is there, half asleep next to her.

"You'd best wait until morning to tell me I didn't take good enough care of the Puppy," she says, voice thick. "I'm not--"

He lets out a sharp laugh as he stirs awake, and then he takes her hand in his, shaking his head. "That wasn't exactly what I was planning." He turns from her and jerks his head, and she's not surprised when Monty shows up almost at once.

"You know I've told you not to let anyone hit your head anymore," Monty remarks. He leans in to check her bandages, but Bellamy doesn't let go of her, and Monty doesn't seem inclined to try to make him. "Don't make me tell you again."

"I had a Puppy to take care of," says Clarke. She wets her lips, looks at Bellamy. "I am sorry, I was--"

"Clarke," he says, amused. "Octavia's fine. She came to tell me _you_ needed someone to take you home."

"I don't--" she protests, but Monty stops her.

"That's a great idea, actually," he says. "I don't like you going back home alone after a healing. You're always muzzy and hungry and generally belligerent."

"I'm generally belligerent before healings too," Clarke mutters. "I'm _fine_."

Bellamy's thumb rubs against her wrist, and when she meets his eyes her head clears enough to register the worry there.

"But you could help me find something to eat and take me home if you wanted," she says, grudging.

"If your healer doesn't mind," Bellamy says, glancing at Monty.

"She's fine," Monty says. "Her skull is thick."

"Love you too, Green," Clarke says, sitting up and feeling her head spin a little. Bellamy slides his arm around her to help her up, and that's at least nice. Clarke leans against him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against her. "You're a _tailor_ ," she mutters.

"She'll perk up as she walks," Monty says. "She's always awful with healings."

"You can't possibly be a tailor with so many muscles," Clarke says. "Tell me you're not a rusher who pretends to be a tailor."

"I'm not a rusher," he says. "I'll take care of her," he adds, to Monty, and tightens his arm around her. "Come on, Clarke."

Outside it's gotten chilly, and the air wakes her up and helps clear her head further. She tries to stand a little straighter, to move away, but Bellamy doesn't relax his hold on her.

"I'm awake," she promises.

"I know," he says, and gives her a smile. "I've been wanting to see you all week. This wasn't what I had in mind."

"You could have just come to see me," Clarke points out.

"I was waiting for your next day off."

"Don't, next time."

He squeezes her side, gentle, even though it's her head she hurt, not her ribs. "I won't, then."

Clarke has no interest in going to an eating house, not when she's off duty for the rest of the night and Bellamy seems to be planning to follow her home and make sure she's cared for. Instead they get a great pile of food from the vendors in the night market and take it back to Clarke's lodgings.

"This isn't that far away from where I live," he says, pleased.

"Where do you live?"

"Above my shop."

Clarke has to smile too. "That is close. We could be seeing each other much more often."

"Much more often," he agrees, and makes her eat half the food before he even touches any. He makes to leave as soon as it's gone, and Clarke finds herself gripping his tunic, firm.

"You could stay," she offers, and feels her cheeks heat. "Not for--not that I'm feeling well enough to do anything but go to sleep, but it's late and we may not be in the Lower City but it's dark out and all manner of Rats are on the street and--"

Bellamy leans in and presses a dry kiss against her lips. She forgets how to breathe for a minute, let alone speak.

Then he pulls back and smiles at her again. "I'll stay."

*

She's disappointed the next morning, when she wakes up alone in her small bed. She knows she didn't dream him being there, because the scent of him still lingers, and she remembers the feel of his arms around her in the night.

So he left. It's no great thing. He did stay the night, and he must have things to do besides verify her head's still in place on her neck.

She still feels awful until she sits up and sees her spare uniforms folded neatly on her desk, with a piece of paper on top of them. She drags herself out of bed, trying to ignore all her various aches and pains, and sees he's written, _Roma will never let me hear the end of it if I'm late to open. Stop by and let me know you're well when you can._

He's mended frayed edges and small tears in her other uniforms, and stitched griffins on them too, the same spot the right inner wrist, almost invisible, except to her. She almost remembers it, drowsing in bed while he stitched, strangely intimate.

She works a small healing on herself, pulling out the aches and pains of the previous night as best she can, and then puts on the blue dress he made her and steps out into the sunshine. It's later than she usually sleeps, but not so late that she can't go and visit him and still have time to come home and get changed before she musters out.

She does like the dress. He should see how well it suits her.

Roma grins at her when she comes in, like she knows a secret. Clarke thinks it isn't much of a secret, all things considered.

"He's in the back," she says, jerking her head toward the door. She leans across the counter toward Clarke, conspiratorial. "You know he wouldn't even let me _touch_ your things. He insisted on doing everything himself."

That's a much better secret; Clarke grins right back at her. "I didn't know that. Thank you."

In the back, Bellamy is hunched over a skirt, doing tiny stitches, so small Clarke can't even see them. His hands look impossibly large, and she wonders how he learned to be so careful.

She'd like to know everything about him.

She looks around at the other dresses until he notices her; she knows the instant he does because he murmurs a sharp oath, and when she turns to him, he has his finger in his mouth, like he pricked himself.

He offers her a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer."

Clarke considers him for a second, and then just crosses the room in three short steps and kisses him. 

She knows he kissed her yesterday, but it hadn't been much of a kiss, just the quick press of his lips before he pulled away, and she was too tired and sore to do anything about it.

Now she kisses him with intent, pressing in close, and it's only a second before his hands come up to frame her face and he kisses her back, sliding his tongue against her lips until she opens for him, and she feels it down to her toes.

He rests his forehead against hers when he pulls back, eyes still closed, and Clarke can't help giving him one more peck.

"I haven't courted anyone before," she says, soft. "I hope I'm doing it right."

He laughs against her lips and kisses her again. "Yes," he says. "You're doing it exactly right."

*

Clarke gives Wells five silver coins when they start their patrol.

"I'll want them back if he's given up on me at Midwinter." She glances back at Octavia. "I thought I told you not to tell your brother I was hurt, Puppy."

"You did," Octavia agrees, without contrition. "Healer Green said you needed someone to take you home. Jaha and I were injured, I couldn't think of anyone else."

"You can get him next time too," she says, and Octavia grins.

Wells, of course, is smirking. Smug is not a good look on him. "I'll go double. If you aren't engaged by Midwinter, I'll give you ten silver."

Clarke considers. "No bet," she says, grinning over her shoulder. "I'd rather keep my coin."


End file.
